UPON the hill he turned
To take a last fond look,
Of the valley and the village church
And the cottage by the brook;
He listened to the sounds,
So familiar to his ear,
And the soldier leant upon his sword
And wiped away a tear.
Beside that cottage porch
A girl was on her knees,
She held aloft a snowy scarf,
Which fluttered in the breeze;
She breathed a prayer for him,
A prayer he could not hear,
But he paused to bless her, as she knelt,
And wiped away a tear.
He turned and left the spot,
Oh, do not deem him weak;
For dauntless was the soldier's heart,
Though tears were on his cheek:
Go watch the foremost rank
In danger's dark career,
Be sure the hand most daring there
Has wiped away a tear.
It was a Sabbath morn,
The bell had chimed for church,
And the young and gay were gathering
Around the rustic porch;
There came an aged man,
In a soldier's garb was he,
And gazing round the group, he crieu,
"Do none remember me?"
His friends were changed or gone;
The manly forms around him there,
As children he had known:
He pointed to the spot
Where his dwelling used to be, Then told his name, and smiling said, "You now remember me !"
Alas! none knew him there!
He pointed to a stone,
On which the name he breathed was traced,
A name to them unknown;
And then the old man wept,
"I am friendless, now," cried he; "Where I had many friends in youth, Not one remembers me!"
"TIs the dismal beat of a muffled drum,
A crowd on the rampart gathers;
What means that dirge amid prancing steeds,
Bright armor and flaunting feathers!
In the martial throng ONE warrior kneels,
With no warrior's garb upon him,
And he hides his face with his folded hands,
For his old companions shun him.
The deserter shrinks from the thought of death,
But it is not a coward's terror,
No, fain would he die in well-fought field,
To blot out one fatal error!
Again! 'tis the beat of the muffled drum,
And the fatal arms are ready,
And the prisoner waits for the signal word,
With an aspect calm and steady.
They have bound his eyes with a silken fold,
But his hands again displace it:
For he who deserves so vile a doom,
Hath at least the nerve to face it;
Shall the brand of dishonor gall the heart,
That hath sighed for the wreath of glory?
Shall his children blush for their father's shame,
When they hear the mournful story?
Он, pilot! 'tis a fearful night,
There's danger on the deep,
I'll come and pace the deck with thee,
I do not dare to sleep.
Go down! the sailor cried, go down,
This is no place for thee:
Fear not; but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayst be.
Ah! pilot, dangers often met,
We all are apt to slight,
And thou hast known these raging waves
But to subdue their might.
It is not apathy, he cried,
That gives this strength to me:
Fear not, but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayst be.
On such a night the sea engulfed
My father's lifeless form;
My only brother's boat went down
In just so wild a storm :
And such, perhaps, may be my fate,
But still I say to thee
Fear not; but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou mayst be.
5. THE OLD MAN'S REVERY.
Or what is the old man thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff?
From the May-day pastime shrinking,
He shares not the merry laugh.
But the tears of the old man flow,
As he looks on the young and gay;
And his gray head, moving slow,
Keeps time to the air they play.
The elders around are drinking,
But not one cup will he quaff:
Oh, of what is the old man thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff?
"Tis not with a vain repining
That the old man sheds a tear,
"Tis not for his strength declining-
He sighs not to linger here.
There's a spell in the air they play,
And the old man's eyes are dim,
For it calls up a past May-day,
And the dear friends lost to him.
From the scene before him shrinking,
From the dance and the merry laugh,
Of their calm repose he is thinking,
As he leans on his oaken staff.
6. OFT IN RELIGION'S NAME.
Too oft in pure Religion's name
Hath human blood been spilt,
And Pride hath claimed a patriot's fame,
To crown the deed of guilt.
Oh! look not on the field of blood-
Religion is not there:
Her battle-field is solitude-
Her only watchword, Prayer!
The sable cowl ambition wears
To hide its laurel wreath;
The spotless sword that virtue bears.
Will slumber in its sheath.
The truly brave fight not for fame,
Though fearless they go forth;
They war not in religion's name—
They pray for peace on earth.
By them, that fear is never felt
Which weakly clings to life,
If shrines by which their fathers knelt
Be perilled in the strife.
Not theirs the heart that, spiritless,
From threatened wrong withdraws;
Not theirs the vaunted holiness
That veils an earthly cause.
In health, and strength, and pride,
Oh! lead his steps through valleys green,
Where rills 'mid cowslips glide:
Climb nature's granite tower,
Where man hath rarely trod;
And will he then, in such a scene,
Deny there is a God?
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